Stranger on the Shore (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4) Read online

  “Not that I know of,” she said, thinking back. Had they?

  “Also, environmental factors, such as one’s parents’ espousing an overly cautious worldview during one’s childhood, or the stress of one’s work situation building up over time, have both been found to be closely correlated with panic attacks. Were family issues or, perhaps, demanding work commitments in your thoughts this afternoon?”

  Ellen tried again to recall what was going through her mind during the board meeting. She remembered thinking about her parents and her sister. That “overly cautious worldview” thing fit her family to a tee. Her parents, especially, had been suffocating when she was growing up. Cold, demanding, and unforgiving people. Thinking about their attitude made her throat tighten and gave her that familiar jolt of wanting to get far away. To be elsewhere. But it didn’t cause her to panic.

  As for her job, she loved it. Sure, it had its stressful days, but she thrived on activity. She still had no idea what could have set off such a crazy reaction, not to mention all of that sweating. And this time she’d ruined a blouse she really liked. This bizarre illness or condition—or whatever the hell it was—was wreaking havoc on her wardrobe.

  “I really just don’t have a clue,” she admitted.

  “That’s all right,” Dr. Cole said, sounding unnervingly competent and reassuring. “We’ll figure it out and get you back to one-hundred percent in no time.” She was trying very hard to still hate the man but, unfortunately, not succeeding as well as she’d like.

  She watched as he filled out the lab request form and called over to cardiology to set up an appointment for her. While her next two days would be filled with decidedly un-fun tests and procedures, the discomfort ahead wasn’t what was worrying Ellen as she walked down the long corridor to get her blood drawn.

  It was that she was going to have to talk to Jared about all of this soon. That something in their idyllic little world—a world they’d painstakingly crafted for themselves and polished through years of tiny adjustments until it was just perfect for the two of them—was going to have to change in some way. Jared really wasn’t fond of change.

  And she wasn’t either. Not when it wasn’t a change of her own making.

  Chapter Seven

  In the Circle

  Thursday morning dawned bright, not a trace of the tempest that raged the night before or a drop of rain left on the baked concrete in front of the bungalow.

  I considered a quick stroll along the beach but didn’t want to chance running into Vivian until after I’d fulfilled my promise to go shopping for better beach shoes. It was time to finally venture out to St. Armand’s.

  Armed with an E-Z map from Mr. Niihau—who’d looked at me like I was insane to need directions, but he kindly gave them to me anyway—I drove the nine miles from Siesta Key, the barrier island just offshore from the city of Sarasota, down the lengthy Tamiami Trail and followed the signs north and west until I got to the John Ringling Boulevard exit. Breathtaking views of the beach abounded in this region of Florida. And crossing the bridge onto Lido Key made me feel as though I was on a grand adventure for the first time in a very long time.

  Even at ten a.m., this neighboring island was bustling with shoppers. I had to hunt for a parking spot. As I whizzed by the palm-tree-lined streets of St. Armand’s Circle, I was reminded of a confetti cake. The buildings and tourists were like handfuls of cheerful pastel swatches, tossed in the air and swirled together as if in celebration.

  I finally found a space and parked. Then I wandered into the heart of the party.

  “Wanna try a fudge sample?” a teenage girl in a Fudge Fantasia apron asked me. The girl had slices cut up and waiting on a tray in front of her, just steps away from the fudge shop’s entrance, and she held out a little plate. “Turtle is our special of the day.”

  I swallowed in anticipation just looking at it: Dense, dark fudge topped with pecans and curlicues of caramel. “Thank you,” I said. Then, after taking my first bite, “Ohhh, wow.”

  The girl nodded knowingly. “Yeah, I love it, too. On sale today for twenty-five percent off per pound.” She pointed at a placard with the reduced amount listed.

  “I’ll think about it.” I knew this wasn’t an outrageous price for high-quality fudge, but I also knew my limited budget and that I’d want to come back later and explore the delectable displays inside the fudge shop. “It’s delicious.”

  “We’ve got Oreo Crumble and Peanut Butter Swirl today, too,” the teen added with more than a hint of devious temptation in her tone.

  I laughed. “Seriously, I promise to return.” Maybe I could afford a quarter pound. Or even a half pound.

  “Good.” The girl glanced to either side, handed me another little plate and winked. “Take one for the road.”

  The teen was going for the hard sell, but it was effective. As I gobbled down my second piece of Turtle fudge, I knew for certain I’d be back.

  For the next hour or so, though, I simply meandered down the streets surrounding St. Armand’s Circle in delight and amazement. The postcard I’d seen at the corner grocery store hadn’t succeeded in convincing me that there were would be this many cool shops and restaurants assembled in one relatively small space. The area had a high-end, bazaar-like atmosphere that I immediately connected with and appreciated.

  I peered into a number of sophisticated stores, exotic boutiques, and artsy galleries, appreciating the beautiful, handcrafted work of the artisans—many based in Florida, but quite a few from destinations around the globe. I couldn’t help but run my fingers across the expertly tooled leather handbags, admire the ceramic birds and dolphins, marvel at the crystal wave sculptures, and enjoy the color fusion of clothing, paintings, and jewelry. Such a remarkable array of shades and textures.

  Eventually, I spotted The Golden Gecko, which was one of the shops the Elvis guy mentioned, and I wandered inside. Like many of the others, it was an assembly of fascinating crafts, this time with a special focus on decorative lizards and amphibians for yard and home. In the window, there was an enormous wrought-iron alligator. Near the door, I found a painted wooden iguana in the shape of a child’s chair. And, of course, there were clay, ceramic, glass, and bronze geckos throughout the shop—sitting on tables, perched on shelves, hanging on walls.

  I saw several paintings, too. These weren’t primarily of slithery creatures, although I did catch sight of a few baby lizards in the corner of one canvas. No. The focus was on the waves and the water. They were seascapes, brightly, beautifully painted in vivid acrylics. Like a visual love letter to the stunning beaches of the Sunshine Coast, and very much like my first impression of walking to the shore: The unbelievable blues of the sky and the Gulf, the clarity of the water, the powdery whiteness of the sand, the surprising burst of color in the form of a swimmer’s bathing suit or a child’s pail and shovel, the small but perfect shells.

  I collected these images, as if carrying my own bucket of sea treasures, and kept them with me as I moved onto the store next door. Castaways. That was the place that should have my water shoes in stock.

  From my view on the sidewalk, it looked to be busy inside—a good sign. And to the other side of it was The Beaded Periwinkle, which appeared to be some kind of shell shop. Interesting. I plunged into the beach outfitters first, deciding to explore them in order.

  Castaways had a motley assortment of very weird stuff.

  But, I had to admit, Elvis was right. There were tons of clothing items, water gear, shoes for the beach, and shoes for the water. I found the Beachwalkers in the snorkel section without a problem and was both pleased and relieved to see that they were reasonably priced. But, after I grabbed a pair of those, I was inspired to sift through some of the shop’s other wares and, goodness, what an amalgamation of items they were.

  Stacks of extra-large, extra-loud towels covered one row of shelving. One of the towels featured thick strands of purple, orange, and green swirled strangely together like some kind of ‘70s tie-
dyed creation. Next to it was a huge sky-blue one that was covered with hot air balloons. Another was an unusually artistic one that looked like a picnic on the beach, with a picture of a towel on the real towel and a basket filled with goodies in the middle that was half unpacked.

  There were adult-sized goggles with leopard-print designs, flippers that were painted to resemble a duck’s webbed feet, swim trunks for men dotted with images of tropical fruit—pineapples, coconuts, mangos and...wow. Nothing like a large banana right on that front zipper, eh? I stifled a laugh and forced myself to look away.

  My gaze landed on a wall crammed with t-shirts with bizarre sayings like, “Shelling is easy. Explaining the increasingly expanding spiral of a Nautilus without using differential calculus is hard.”

  Huh?!

  Most of the other shirts were a little easier for me to understand, but still very original, smart, and funny. Maybe if Donny had been half as creative with his t-shirts, he would’ve been able to make his business take off.

  I spied a set of paintings in this shop, too, and they appeared to have been done by the same artist whose work was in The Golden Gecko. Again, beautiful, vibrant shades of teal, sapphire, cerulean, indigo, emerald, and lime—and that was just the water and sky. I studied one canvas up close and noticed it had a very loud beach towel in it. Made me wonder if the artist’s work was influenced by seeing the towels in this shop, or if the shop’s owner bought that particular painting because it had the towel in it.

  I managed to inch my way up to the busy counter, pay for my purchases, and step out of the store into the insane midday mugginess. The Beaded Periwinkle was next on my list of visits, but the stirrings of hunger and thirst took priority.

  After finding a sandwich shop and picking up a tuna wrap and a lemonade, I collapsed into a chair in the air-conditioned corner of the deli and enjoyed my lunch. The flurry of passersby and the call of seagulls I heard every time the door opened was entertainment enough.

  Afterward, I even allowed myself to wander back via Fudge Fantasia, where I waved at the teen girl who was still working there. The girl had lured a young couple into her net and was busy giving them the details of the sweets sale, but she still took a second to grin at me and say, “I knew I’d see you again!”

  Inside, it was as irresistible as I’d expected, and I walked away with a half-pound splurge of Turtle fudge and a large sample pack of some of their most popular dessert creations. This way, I’d get to try the Oreo, peanut butter, dried fruit, raspberry, caramel, French vanilla, hazelnut, almond...etc. They would make for a great dessert for weeks—if I could get them back home before they melted.

  I window-shopped a little more en route and began to feel the edges of exhaustion—the combination of the humidity and the visual overload took its toll—and I knew I ought to head back to the bungalow soon. But, when I finally entered The Beaded Periwinkle, I was glad to have saved it for last.

  I was struck at once by the sheer number of shells packed into this small space and the gazillion unique uses for them. There were picture frames made of shells, wind chimes, hall mirrors, lampshades, nightlights, an array of shell-encrusted furniture and, oh, jewelry. So much jewelry. Earrings, bracelets, necklaces, even belts. They were so imaginatively designed and well-crafted that I was mesmerized.

  Hanging from a tall spinning case were a hundred pairs of shell-and-bead earrings of various styles, shapes, lengths, and colors. The ones that caught my eye first were made of six calico scallops—three on each side—with the smallest shell on the top, followed by the medium, and then the largest. When jostled, they jingled like angels’ bells. But it wasn’t just the sound and shape that grabbed my attention. It was the starbursts of soft pink, rose, and lavender that zigzagged across each shell. The expertly fastened sterling fishhook gave the dangles the finished sheen of a professional piece. The natural symmetry of the ridges and ripples. How gorgeous.

  “You should try ‘em on,” a petite dynamo of a woman in her mid-thirties said, a hint of Texas lingering in her voice. “You’ll find a mirror just over there.” She crooked her thumb at the shell-framed oval mirror hanging on the wall behind me.

  I pulled out my small, mother-of-pearl teardrop earrings, and I slipped on the scallop-shell ones. Staring at my reflection, I couldn’t help but think that, until yesterday, it had been a long, long time since I’d purchased anything for myself that wasn’t a dire necessity. I realized another thing, too. That even a change in my appearance this small could make me look and feel like someone else.

  And I happened to quite like this new someone.

  “They are really lovely,” I told the woman.

  “So thrilled to hear you like ‘em,” the shop lady replied. The delight in her voice and the hawk-like gaze of the woman snagged my attention, and I immediately suspected the other woman’s heightened awareness might be more than just interest in a potential sale. There was more at stake here.

  “By chance, did you make these?” I asked, motioning toward the earrings I was wearing and then toward the entire twirling jewelry stand.

  The shop woman grinned and nodded. “I make everything in here.” Her focus strayed to a small table in the far corner where two other women were sitting and poring over some shells, decorative beads, nylon strings, and various metal hooks. They were so absorbed in their task, neither seemed to see or hear anyone else. “Well, almost everything,” she clarified with a laugh. “My friends over there are helping me with a special project.”

  When I raised my eyebrows in curiosity, the energetic jewelry lady motioned me closer. “C’mon. I’ll show you,” she said.

  The two new ladies, one about my age and one a decade younger, glanced up and smiled as the jewelry lady and I approached them.

  “Hi, there,” the tall brunette said, her Southern origins evident in just the softness of these two syllables.

  “This is Lorelei,” the jewelry lady told me, pointing toward the brunette, who had a very intelligent expression and had to be in her early forties. Then to the blonde, who was shorter, rounder, younger, and very sweet-looking, “And this is Abby. My best friends.” She beamed at them. “They’re also my rescuers. I don’t know what I’d do without them this week.” She turned back to me and stuck out her palm. “I’m Joy Canton, owner of this shop and—”

  “A recovering Texan,” Lorelei interjected, with an arch of her thin, dark eyebrow.

  “Someone who hasn’t yet learned to say no,” Abby added, her amused tone not remotely Southern.

  “Oh, put a sock in it, y’all. I was gonna say I’m always glad to meet visitors. Maybe I should say I’ll be glad to get some new best friends.” She mock glared at the other two women.

  “Nope, you’re stuck with us,” Lorelei said to her, then she winked at me.

  Abby picked up a long nylon string and snapped it in Joy’s direction. The jewelry store owner laughed.

  I felt a sudden bolt of envy at their warmth and sense of community, but I smiled and shook the hands of all three women. “Marianna Gregory,” I said. “Very nice meeting all of you.”

  “Nice to meet you, too, Marianna,” Abby replied. “Midwestern, yes?”

  I nodded. “I’m from a northern suburb of Chicago, Illinois—Mirabelle Harbor—but I’m in Sarasota for—”

  “WHAT? You’re from Mirabelle Harbor? So am I!” Abby beamed at me. “Wow. Small world.”

  Something tugged at the edges of my mind. “Oh, my goodness, wait. Are you Abby Solinski, by chance? My good friend Olivia mentioned—”

  “Olivia Michaelsen?” Abby interrupted.

  “Yes.”

  The younger blonde paled just a little, but she recovered quickly. Probably not quickly enough to escape the notice of her friends, though.

  “Yeah,” she said. “I’m Abby Solinski. And I know the Michaelsen family, uh, pretty well.”

  Because she’d been Chandler Michaelsen’s girlfriend for five years, I remembered. Oh, poor lady. Those Michaelsen men could
be heartbreakers. But I didn’t say that.

  “You’re right. It’s a very small world,” I told her instead. “And Olivia said wonderful things about you. She was hoping we might meet.”

  “Thanks,” Abby murmured. “Olivia was always really nice to me. Any friend of hers is a friend of mine.” She paused. “How long are you in Sarasota, Marianna?”

  “Just for a few weeks.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too, when I first got here, but it’s turned into a few years.” Abby chuckled. However, I couldn’t help but detect a note of sadness just beneath the laughter.

  “I hail from Tallahassee,” Lorelei said, successfully turning our attention toward her, maybe as a way to give Abby a break from her memories. “My husband’s job got us transferred down here about a decade ago. Fell in love with Sarasota.”

  “And I’m originally from San Antonio,” Joy told me. “I’ve been in Florida since I was in junior high, but—”

  “She refuses to let go of her Texan ways,” Lorelei teased, motioning me nearer as if to share a deep confidence. “I am sure she does it just to torment me.” She drew out her vowels extra long for emphasis and fluttered her hand like a fan by her face, as if she was in need of reviving.

  Joy rolled her eyes, her lips twisting in an unsuccessful attempt not to grin. “Hi, ho, there, Mrs. Lorelei Beck. Don’t you take that pomegranate tone with me or I’ll be fixin’ to get even.”

  The other two women chuckled in delight, but I was perplexed. What the heck was a “pomegranate” tone? Maybe it was an expression native to Florida...or to Texas. All I knew was that I never heard it before.

  I was still debating whether or not to show my ignorance and ask, when Joy said, “What do you think of their bracelets? Beautiful, aren’t they?” She pointed to a shelf right beside Lorelei and Abby that was strewn with jewelry—mostly bracelets, but also a few necklaces and earrings—and I was struck by the thoughtful combination of small shells and beads that comprised their designs.